Love is a temporary madness.
It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides.
And when it subsides you have to make a decision.
You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together
that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.
Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness,
it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of
promises of eternal passion.That is just being in love
which any of us can convince ourselves we are.
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away,
and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.
Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground,
and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches
we found that we were one tree and not two.
- - louis de bernieres.
Tomorrow marks me and Pat's two year anniversary. In two years, he has met my parents and not gone running, laughed at my little brother's jokes, worried about my little sister's decisions, helped me breathe for several panic attacks, watched me kick a stool into a mirror, throw an Orangina bottle at a wall, helped me pay for things when I was between jobs or just plain failed at budgeting, suffered through Phoenix heat with me, seen me with about half a dozen different hair colors and once with no hair at all, held me while we saw Nick Cave for my 21st birthday (We are Cave-ists, Nick Cave is our religion and the first time we had sex was during "church," also known as watching a live Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds DVD in my bedroom), wandered around our scary neighborhood at one in the morning looking for the cat I cried over, learned all of my darkest secrets and stuck around, read my book, bought one copy of a record for the two of us, read my mind, made me come, brushed my hair and rubbed my feet, suffered through a lazy painful weekend with me when I was trying to get on Vitamin Z the first time, went off his meds and lost a ton of weight, watched me slowly gain 15 (he met me at 99), grew to love Cursive, trusted me enough to see him cry, gained my trust enough to let him see me cry, held me in front of his entire family, watched them tease me as a way of showing their affection and even joined in knowing I loved it and felt at home, sent me into an infinite number of giggle fits, sent me into sobbing hysterics, kissed me to calmness, clung to me as we both choked out tear-filled I Love You's, was calm during my pregnancy scare, told me things he's never told everyone, called me his best friend, cut his hair, grew his beard and cut his beard, took me to his sister's wedding and smiled proudly as his family pulled me into the professional immediate-family-only photos, watched his mother take my side over his in every petty battle, exhibited overabundant patience when I come home loaded and reeking of alcohol which for an addict with 7 years clean can't be easy, worked with me in my drunken guilt and desperation, painted our room a lovely maroon and accidentally leaving the ceiling that ugly yellow, kissed me a billion times, told me he loves me a billion and one times, called me Babydoll from the moment we met and still does to this day (which still makes me swoon), given me his everything, shares everything, trusts me with everything, and has graciously accepted my everything everything everything, good and bad.
I love him, I do. I got lucky somewhere.
And even after finding the Michael Grace to my Andrea Vaughn - well, My Favorite doesn't exist anymore, and These Are The Happiest Days Of My Life.
Tomorrow, I wipe my slate clean, Lady Lazarus, this time I won't die but I'll actually begin to live. Live of love. I will stumble and I will fall, but I cannot fail.
It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides.
And when it subsides you have to make a decision.
You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together
that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.
Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness,
it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of
promises of eternal passion.That is just being in love
which any of us can convince ourselves we are.
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away,
and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.
Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground,
and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches
we found that we were one tree and not two.
- - louis de bernieres.
Tomorrow marks me and Pat's two year anniversary. In two years, he has met my parents and not gone running, laughed at my little brother's jokes, worried about my little sister's decisions, helped me breathe for several panic attacks, watched me kick a stool into a mirror, throw an Orangina bottle at a wall, helped me pay for things when I was between jobs or just plain failed at budgeting, suffered through Phoenix heat with me, seen me with about half a dozen different hair colors and once with no hair at all, held me while we saw Nick Cave for my 21st birthday (We are Cave-ists, Nick Cave is our religion and the first time we had sex was during "church," also known as watching a live Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds DVD in my bedroom), wandered around our scary neighborhood at one in the morning looking for the cat I cried over, learned all of my darkest secrets and stuck around, read my book, bought one copy of a record for the two of us, read my mind, made me come, brushed my hair and rubbed my feet, suffered through a lazy painful weekend with me when I was trying to get on Vitamin Z the first time, went off his meds and lost a ton of weight, watched me slowly gain 15 (he met me at 99), grew to love Cursive, trusted me enough to see him cry, gained my trust enough to let him see me cry, held me in front of his entire family, watched them tease me as a way of showing their affection and even joined in knowing I loved it and felt at home, sent me into an infinite number of giggle fits, sent me into sobbing hysterics, kissed me to calmness, clung to me as we both choked out tear-filled I Love You's, was calm during my pregnancy scare, told me things he's never told everyone, called me his best friend, cut his hair, grew his beard and cut his beard, took me to his sister's wedding and smiled proudly as his family pulled me into the professional immediate-family-only photos, watched his mother take my side over his in every petty battle, exhibited overabundant patience when I come home loaded and reeking of alcohol which for an addict with 7 years clean can't be easy, worked with me in my drunken guilt and desperation, painted our room a lovely maroon and accidentally leaving the ceiling that ugly yellow, kissed me a billion times, told me he loves me a billion and one times, called me Babydoll from the moment we met and still does to this day (which still makes me swoon), given me his everything, shares everything, trusts me with everything, and has graciously accepted my everything everything everything, good and bad.
I love him, I do. I got lucky somewhere.
And even after finding the Michael Grace to my Andrea Vaughn - well, My Favorite doesn't exist anymore, and These Are The Happiest Days Of My Life.
Tomorrow, I wipe my slate clean, Lady Lazarus, this time I won't die but I'll actually begin to live. Live of love. I will stumble and I will fall, but I cannot fail.
